Forever
by Kimmychu
Summary: People say that love conquers all things … but can it conquer death? A Danny/Flack love story.


**Forever**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairing: Danny/Flack

Content Warning: Loads and loads of angst. This story is a definite tear-jerker.

Spoilers: All the major episodes up to episode 4x13.

Summary: People say that love conquers all things … but can it conquer death? A Danny/Flack love story.

Disclaimer: sniffle Danny and Flack will always have each other.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: For those who are sentimental or cry easily, this is one story you may want to read only when you feel like having a good, long cry. I am dead serious when I say there's loads of angst. There is also something else that I've refrained from listing out in the content warning, mainly because it'll spoil the story big time. I hope you'll understand. Thank you for reading, and for your reviews. I appreciate them.

By the way, if you happen to have the soundtrack for the movie, **The Fountain**, you may like to listen to the song, **Together We Will Live Forever**. It was my ambience music while writing this.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

The steel railing is ice cold to the touch of his hands. The snow that falls from the midnight sky melts upon his hot cheeks. The snow on the pavement crunches beneath his boots.

From his viewpoint on the George Washington bridge, the churning waters of the Hudson river far below him is akin to a sentient canvas of black paint rolling downwards in oozing swells. Dark, secretive, silent.

Inviting.

He's certain the river is speaking to him, murmuring to him of its comforting haven, of a place within it where he'll be far, far away from the agony and regret and grief that has consumed him piece by bleeding piece. He's certain it's a good place. A place of peace and contentment.

He's certain Flack will be there, waiting for him.

His fingers clench around curved steel as he thinks about the others. He thinks of Mac, who will most likely have read his letter by now and is frantically calling Stella and the rest of the team to search for him. He thinks of Stella, who has been the older sister he never had, who will probably cry the most when his body is retrieved sooner or later. He thinks of Hawkes, and he visualizes the medical examiner turned CSI staring at his corpse on the autopsy table with glistening, despairing eyes. And he thinks of Lindsay, and only sees her turning around and walking away, unable to accept the truth that plummeted from his lips months ago.

He thinks of Flack, and he shuts searing eyes, feeling renewed heat tricking down his wan face.

He thinks of Flack, and he raises his right leg over the railing.

Now there is nothing between him and that good place where Flack is.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

There are dark circles around Flack's beautiful blue eyes. Danny hates those circles. They mock him and mar Flack's gorgeous, handsome, magnificent visage. They don't belong there. They have no right to be there.

And yet, they're there, branding themselves upon Flack's pallid skin, reminding Danny every time he gazes at the face of the man he loves that time is running out. Time is running out and he and Flack still have so much to do, so much to see, so much to experience.

Time is running out, and all Danny can do is sit at Flack's bedside in a bleak, colorless hospital room, clutching and stroking Flack's hand, caressing Flack's sunken cheek. Trying so hard to smile. Trying so hard to deny cruel reality.

"I'm sorry I couldn't go … with you," Flack is whispering slowly, his once dark pink lips now a pale shadow of their former selves, "Sorry we … didn't get to choose … them together."

Danny's eyes are burning again, but he tries his damnest to smile anyway. He's become skilled at it. He can fool anyone now, anyone except the emaciated man lying under two blankets on the bed next to him.

"It's okay," Danny says in what he fervently hopes isn't a broken voice. "It's okay, I picked out two I know you'll love. You always had a thing for Celtic designs, I know. They'll look great on us, you'll see, they'll look great."

Flack's tender smile rips at his heart.

There is something in Flack's half-closed eyes and he doesn't want to see it, he doesn't dare to see it because he knows what it means and he's not ready to let go yet, he's _not_ -

Flack's lips move soundlessly.

Danny watches those beautiful blue eyes flutter close.

"Don?"

Flack is quiet and unmoving.

"_Don?_"

Danny's face is already crumpling as the doctors and nurses wrestle him away from the bedside, and he's already screaming inside as they hammer on Flack's frozen chest and breathe into airless lungs and electrocute a soulless body.

Flack isn't there anymore.

But Danny's not ready to let go. He's not.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

Danny always feels safe within the refuge of Flack's arms.

They're lounging on the couch in the living room, him lying between Flack's spread legs, watching some random film since the baseball game they'd intended to watch is postponed to a later date. He doesn't know what the title of the movie is. He's assuming it has to be some chick flick from the scene showing on screen. A man and a woman are getting married. The bride's in a simple albeit striking white wedding gown, while the groom is in an equally simple and striking black tuxedo and bow tie.

They're smiling at each other, holding each other's hands as if they never wish to let go.

Flack's holding his hands the same way.

"You'll look nice in a weddin' gown," Flack says.

Danny's lower jaw sags in mock indignation. Truth be told, his knee-jerk reaction had been to grin and laugh but there's no way he's going to let Flack know he actually envisioned himself in such a dress. Even if it was just for a millisecond.

"A _weddin' gown?_" Danny twists around in Flack's embrace onto his tummy and smacks Flack on the chest, giving the snickering man a mock glower. "If anyone's gonna be wearin' a weddin' gown, it'll be _you_, pretty boy."

Flack's snicker escalates into an amused laugh.

Then, out of nowhere, Flack says, "C'mon, let's get married. Let's fly to Canada and get ourselves registered as civil partners or somethin'."

Flack's offer stuns Danny to the core.

"Married?" Danny replies and sniggers before he's able to stop himself. "You're so crazy sometimes, ya know that?"

He swiftly regrets it when he sees the disappointment in Flack's eyes. It's well-concealed but Danny detects it, nonetheless. He runs his fingers down the side of Flack's mien in tacit apology. Flack smiles in acknowledgement. It is a sad smile, and it haunts Danny's thoughts throughout the rest of the movie.

He's not watching the film, not even when a round of applause erupts from the television speakers. He's staring at his left hand entwined with Flack's on his thigh. He's staring at the emptiness around their third fingers, wondering what it would look like with rings there.

Flack squeezes his hand, and he returns the gesture, already imagining his lover slipping a platinum ring onto his finger as he declares, _I do_.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

Cleaning up Flack's bedroom is the hardest thing Danny has ever had to do.

Every object his trembling hands encounter is immersed with memories, with glimpses of the exquisite past and bittersweet possibilities of a future that will never become reality now. A mauve jacket still carries Flack's soothing scent. A piece of paper on the bedside table still exhibits Flack's elegant handwriting. A picture frame still displays a recent photograph of Flack in his overwhelming handsomeness.

Danny is alone in the bedroom. He's sitting on the edge of the neat, tidied bed, crushing that framed photograph of Flack to his chest. He's rocking to and fro, and he's all alone and he's lonely and there's no one there to tell him it's going to be alright, that things will get better.

He doesn't contain the wetness brimming in his eyes anymore, or the faint sobs or the low keens that escape his contorted mouth. He lets the tears flow in rivulets down his cheeks. He does nothing to wipe them away, for they will continue to fill and refill his eyes for many days and nights to follow and it doesn't matter. Even when he's not crying, everyone gazes at him with pitying eyes. Everyone knows he's still crying within.

He cries for an eon. He's powerless to hold back the tide now, unlike how he did during the funeral, during the strangulating minutes while Flack's coffin is lowered into the ground. The grinding of machinery engulfs the weeping of the others.

The noise is all he hears later, after he's reverently packed what remains of Flack's belongings into a suitcase and he's back in his own apartment, hurling a lamp at one of the walls of his living area. Flinging stacks of paper and books everywhere. Dashing anything he lays his hands on onto the floor. Smashing everything in the futile hope it'll shatter this giant rock of pain that's made itself at home inside him, that's shoved every decent emotion out of him, every single one.

In the bathroom, he's wincing as the blade of the small kitchen knife digs into the skin of his third left finger. He doesn't think about what he's doing. All he knows is that the bareness around that finger is killing him and Flack never got to place that ring there and he _needs_ to have a permanent ring there because it's all he has left of Flack.

He stares at the bright red blood dripping from his hand onto the tiled floor through blurry, stinging eyes, at the crimson band around his finger.

It's all he has left of Flack, and it isn't enough.

It never will be.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

There is an alien pallor to Flack's face that troubles Danny.

They're striding down the main hallway of the CSI headquarters, heading for Mac's office to update the man on their progress for the Windell double homicide case that occurred in Staten Island. Danny's walking slower than usual and so is Flack. There's something about the way Flack is dragging his feet, something about the way Flack's normally alert eyes are glassy and half-lidded that also perturbs Danny.

Flack appeared just fine last night. All the man had complained about was a headache, nothing more. Flack's prone to getting headaches. At least, more so in the past few months. Danny hasn't worried much about it.

Danny attempts to catch Flack's attention with, "So, Don, ya wanna go to that new diner I was tellin' ya 'bout?"

Flack suddenly stumbles to a halt. The homicide detective doesn't answer him. Danny also skids to a stop, and swivels around to see what's wrong with Flack and gasps.

Flack's face has completely bled out of color. He's staring at something invisible in the distance and the blankness of Flack's features terrifies Danny into rigidity.

"Why is everythin' spinnin' so much?" Flack whispers.

Flack's knees buckle. Danny's reply transforms into a cry of horror and he rushes forward to grab hold of Flack in his arms before Flack's body hits the floor. An iceberg devastates his insides when he sees Flack's eyes roll back into his head and Flack goes utterly limp, unresponsive to his desperate pleas to open those eyes and talk to him in that reassuring, baritone voice.

Somebody's wedging a folded up jacket beneath Flack's head. It's Adam, who informs him an ambulance is already on the way. It's Adam as well who helps him climb into the ambulance to accompany Flack after discovering his wobbly legs won't obey him.

He ends up sitting in the hospital waiting area for hours, ignoring his constantly ringing mobile phone, ignoring people who glance in detached curiosity at him, ignoring everything except that little voice in his heart mumbling over and over that Flack's going to be alright. Flack's going to be okay. Flack always gets better. Didn't Flack recover from that bomb blast? If the guy could heal from that, he can heal from anything, right?

Danny always figured the world will end one day. He always figured it would be some sensational event with international news coverage and chaos and madness of cosmic proportions.

But he's wrong.

The world doesn't end with a bang. It doesn't end with a nuclear explosion or a plague. It ends with a doctor's commiserating words that slice and hack at Danny's soul like swords.

"The cancer is already in its end stages. Even with chemotherapy, he'll only have months at most. I'm very sorry."

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

Their fingers are intertwined. They're strolling down Poets' Alley in Central Park, and there are other people sauntering the wide walkway with them but Danny doesn't care.

He doesn't care that some of them are casting glances at him and Flack. He doesn't care if they think it's weird or disgusting or wrong of him to be grasping Flack's hand while they walk together.

Those people aren't in his shoes. They don't know what it's like to be him. They don't know what it's like to listen to a doctor say that someone you love with all your heart is dying and that there's nothing that can be done to save him. They don't know what it's like to helplessly watch the one you love wither into a gaunt husk of a man, to weep when that same man who's suffering says in all sincerity, "It's going to be okay, Danny, we're not goin' anywhere, trust me."

They don't know what it's like to watch that man attain the impossible; to return from the threshold of death, to return to him when he believed it was already too late.

Flack's cancer is in remission. Against all the odds, Flack is winning the biological war.

"I'm a little tired. Can we sit down for a while?" Flack murmurs, and Danny instantly concurs.

They take a break and sit side by side on one of the many long benches lining Poets' Alley. Danny had come here once during the winter. It had snowed heavily that evening, he remembers. He'd stood on the center of the path, his eyes wide in awe and appreciation at the pristine beauty of white snow covering the ground and the benches and the bare trees that will blossom in spring. Illumination from lamp posts between the benches caused the snow to radiate an ethereal glow.

He wants to share that vision of Poets' Alley with Flack. He wants to be able to sit here, just like they are now, and gaze at the snow and the lights and at each other and know that they'll share picturesque moments like these for years and years to come.

"Do you still want to marry me?" Danny asks, gripping Flack's hands, gazing deep into Flack's gleaming blue eyes.

Flack's lower lip trembles, and then, he whispers, "Yes."

Danny's hands tighten around Flack's. He doesn't care that his voice is hoarse as he replies, "We'll fly up to Canada. We'll ask Dr. Kinsey and see if you're well enough to fly and then we'll register as civil partners and when we come back, we'll search for rings together, okay? What do ya think?"

Flack doesn't say anything. He simply nods, his smile wavering from emotion and Danny doesn't mind.

It's enough. It's more than enough.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

He's sitting alone in the computer laboratory. The wide computer monitor in front of him is showing a red-bordered, black AFIS window while the system scans for matching fingerprints to the one he'd taken off a victim's PVC dress today.

He used to enjoy staring at the green fingerprints as they changed from one to another by the seconds. The sight lulled him into a relaxing stupor, even more so when he had a long day and was on his last ounces of energy.

Flack used to tease him about it all the time.

Flack is dead now.

The fingerprints turn into green smears before Danny's sore eyes. The words on the screen turn into unreadable splotches. And for the thousandth time, Danny has to remove his glasses to rub at his eyes. God, he's so weary of being this way. He's so weary of being lifeless and numb and empty. He's so weary of existing in a world where Flack isn't here anymore.

He senses Stella approaching him, standing next to his chair. He lowers his hand and places his spectacles back on and doesn't raise his head. Stella isn't offended, and he knows this because Stella's hand is on the back of his neck, stroking the back of his head in a maternal fashion. It makes him reminiscent of the times Flack had done the same whenever he felt despondent or frustrated and he has to grit his teeth hard to not howl his sorrow at the universe.

"You can talk to me, Danny. Any time," Stella says.

The anguish in her voice strengthens Danny's resolve. It reminds him of the decision he's come to, the decision that is the only balm to his torment, the only way out of a farce of a life where half of him is missing. He knows it's the only way, and he's sure Stella knows that too.

He finally lifts his head and gives Stella a semblance of a smile.

"I'll be alright. Trust me."

In his blindness, he doesn't notice the growing apprehension in Stella's green eyes, or her hand hovering over his shoulder that then pulls away after he turns his back on her.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

The waters are summoning him once more.

He's perched on the railing now, facing the Hudson river and he no longer feels the iciness of the metal beneath his hands. Behind him, he can hear vehicles zooming past on the lanes of the bridge. None of them slow down or stop.

Danny knows they won't. It's been fated that no one will hinder his plan. It's been fated he would be by himself here tonight, in the heart of winter, wearing just his Henley shirt and jeans and boots. He had been so cold before as he trudged his way to where he is now.

He's not cold anymore.

He stares at the thick scar encircling the lowest joint of his left third finger. It's hardly a ring, much less a platinum one, but it's a enduring one. No one can ever take it away from him.

He wonders if Flack has a ring too, and whether Flack's is the same like his. When they are together again, he'll be certain to obtain new and much better ones for them. Spectacular, shiny rings with those Celtic knots engraved on them. Rings Flack will be proud of, rings that'll last as long as time itself does.

Rings that will last as long as they do.

His eyes flicker close. He sees Flack standing in the distance and part of his mind is telling him it's only a memory of the instance he sprained his ankle and just had the bandages stripped off. Flack is standing in the distance, bordered by the doorway of his bedroom, beckoning him to rise to his feet and walk towards him.

"Come to me, Danny."

Flack is smiling. His arms are spread wide.

It is the sanctuary Danny has been seeking for his whole life.

And for the first time in a millennia, and the very last time, Danny's lips curve up in a euphoric smile.

"I'm comin', Don. Wait for me."

And Danny jumps.

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

**oooOOooo**

Flack is a mind-blowing vision of rosy, pale skin in a black t-shirt and dark blue jeans and buckled boots. Of course, Danny doesn't state this aloud. Flack's hands are large and strong. His fists are probably even stronger.

Danny's not eager to have a face full of fists. Not even Flack's.

"Boy, I had a _great_ time," Flack says with an extensive grin, and Danny smiles back, secretly jubilant at knowing Flack had a good time with him tonight.

He's not quite sure what's so different about tonight, however. They didn't do anything particularly special. They just played hoops together, just the two of them, just like they always do, and they just had pizza together at their favorite pizza parlor. Then Flack drove him back to his apartment building like he always does and they walked into the elevator together like they always do and they're standing here in front of his apartment door like they always have, every time they're together.

"Yeah, and I beat you by _ten points_," Danny gloats, waggling his eyebrows. He's more than prepared for Flack knuckling the top of his head and he snickers like he always does whenever Flack does that, relishing the physical contact.

He remembers all of Flack's touches. Every single one of them.

Sometimes, when he catches Flack staring at him with such intensity, he wonders if Flack thinks about _his_ touches and remembers all of them too. He wonders if Flack thinks about him at all, and the mere idea of Flack doing so suffuses his chest with a remarkable warmth.

Maybe, just maybe, Flack has a damn good reason for staring at him so much so often.

Sometimes, most times, he wishes to possess the ability to read minds, just to know what Flack is thinking.

And whether he dwells in Flack's ruminations, just like Flack continually dwells in his.

"Oh, really?" One of Flack's thick eyebrows shoot upwards. "Well, that's 'cause I _let_ ya win, Danno."

Danny laughs again. He loves it when Flack calls him by personal pet names. It makes him speculate how many Flack's created for him. It makes him speculate why Flack would even bother making multiple ones in the first place, why Flack always gets so excited about spending time with him, why there is such a vivid glimmer in Flack's big blue eyes as the man stares at his face.

He yearns to believe that Flack feels the same way about him as he does about Flack.

He wants to believe that dreams can still come true, even after the horrors he's witnessed, after all the evil he's encountered in his work as a CSI, after all the sadness he's had to bear for so long.

"Sure, Don, if that's what ya wanna think, sure," Danny says, and a laugh of surprise is shaken out of him when Flack grabs him by the shoulders and pretends to wrestle with him as if he's some anaconda snake that has to be tamed.

He has no idea how he winds up with Flack's arms squashing him to Flack's tall, firm body or how Flack's lips are pressing against his or how his own arms are wrapped around Flack's broad shoulders and his fingers are curled into Flack's dark, copious hair. Flack is kissing him for all he's worth, and it's enough, it's almost enough but he desires more and he tells Flack through his low moans and him tugging Flack's head down so he can kiss the rest of Flack's attractive visage and commit every line, blemish and detail to memory for eternity.

They're both breathing hard by the time their lips separate. Their noses are brushing. Their breaths mingle, and they're breathing as one. Flack's hands are caressing the small of his back, rubbing his skin under his white tank top. His own hands are cupping Flack's cheeks and jaw.

He gazes at the expression litting up Flack's face and it strikes him with the power of lightning, at last, just how many times he's seen it.

Flack had the same expression when they were investigating a homicide in that former beauty pageant queen's apartment, when Flack stared at him as if he was the sole candlelight in the darkness.

Flack had the same expression when he was accused of shooting and killing a fellow detective and he believed no one had his back, no one except Flack.

Flack had the same expression when he was trapped in that dead billionaire's panic room, when the door opened and the perp had taken him hostage and Stella shot the perp and saved him.

Flack had the same expression when he had cried his eyes out after the enormity of what happened to his brother Louie whacked him in its entirety, when Flack held him tight and murmured words of solace and hope into his hair, that Sonny Sassone was going to rot in prison for life, that Louie will pull through, that things are going to be alright.

Flack had the same expression when Aiden was found dead and he was crying again and Flack was embracing him again and promising him they'll hunt down her murderer and exact justice.

Flack had the same expression when they were in Flack's car and he spoke to Shane Casey about brothers … when he crawled out of that trailer with a broken hand and fractured ribs, hurting but alive … when poor, innocent Ruben died due to his negligence and Ruben's mother Rikki nearly killed a man with the expectation of the act erasing her grief.

Flack had the same expression.

Flack had the same look of complete and utter love, every time.

And even now, as they stand in front of his apartment door embracing one another, it's only for him. Only him.

"Danny?"

There is a tremor in Flack's voice.

Danny stares into Flack's wide eyes. Then, he sends Flack a soft smile and he grasps Flack's hand in his and silently leads his friend, the best friend he's ever had, into his apartment. He guides them into his bedroom, where they strip one another of their clothes with veneration and they make love on his bed till the sun is rising over the Manhattan skyline and a new day is dawning upon the earth.

In the sunlight, Flack is a mind-blowing vision of rosy, pale skin swathed in a dark red blanket and this time, Danny states this out loud for Flack to hear. Flack's chuckle is sweeter than the song of a nightingale.

What Flack murmurs to him while they lie on their sides facing each other is even sweeter.

"I've loved you forever."

It is an inevitability, this precious moment in this perpetual age where Flack professes his love to Danny for the first time. It is just as much an inevitability that Danny slides across the bed to mold himself against Flack's warmth, to kiss Flack on the lips and whisper into them the same words that Flack will whisper in his final minutes in this world:

"And I love you, forever."

**Fin.**


End file.
